An Education
by GranthamGal
Summary: A drabble montage that spans the length of Robert and Cora's marriage, highlighting a few of the moments in which Robert learns just what exactly it means to be in love. Written for the 2015 Cobert Valentine's Day Exchange.
1. Chapter 1

"…_How easy it would be to show me how you feel  
More than words is all you have to do to make it real  
Then you wouldn't have to say that you love me…"_

Robert stood with his back to the dividing door, his fingers grasping desperately at the knob, his one escape. Cora's gaze, terse and unrelenting, had forced him this far backward, and he felt—not for the first time that evening—that he'd much prefer the quiet sanctity of his dressing room to yet another argument with his wife.

"Is that all you have to say on the matter?" she asked again, raising an eyebrow. Her arms were crossed tightly around her waist, and the faint outline of her stomach could just be seen beneath the loose fabric of her nightdress.

"I—" Robert scratched his head, feeling a faint buzzing there, and frowned in thought. "Cora, _I love you_," he insisted after a pause, enunciating the words with careful precision.

She rolled her eyes and then, kicking her slippers off in his general direction, stomped over to her bed and drew back the covers.

"Cora!"

There were few things Robert disliked more than being ignored. And tonight, after what seemed arduous hours of argument, it only irked him more intensely to see her behave so flippantly at his declaration.

"What, Robert?" She sighed, raising her still narrowed eyes to his gaze.

"Didn't you hear what I said?"

Another sigh. God, how he hated not knowing what those brief sounds of displeasure meant. There were, he had realized since their marriage, myriad emotions one could display. And his wife was adept at displaying them all, though he was not nearly as adept at deciphering them.

Looking at him as though he were particularly dense, Cora answered, "yes, I heard you."

"And you don't care?" he asked.

"Once again you seem to think that you can end any argument with a declaration of love. But that isn't how it works, Robert."

"But, I—"

"Actions speak louder than words. Hasn't anyone ever told you that? I'd much prefer you show me that you love me, and stick up for me with your parents," she interrupted, ignoring his open-wide mouth that was ready for more argument.

Silently, Robert racked his brain, remembering all the times Cora had poked, prodded, wanting him to verbalize what he now knew had first blossomed a month or two after their marriage. _Love, love, love. _It was all she ever said to him those first few unsteady months. He'd have been drunk on it, had the word had the power that Cora had so desperately wished it to. But now, ever since he'd told her (months ago, now), she seemed to want something entirely different. And ever since the emergence of the almost imperceptible bump, and talk of nurseries and names, and heirs, what Cora wanted seemed to change at every hour.

She was still looking at him.

"I understand," he said slowly, finally, understanding absolutely nothing.

"Good," Cora replied simply, patting the empty space beside her. "Then you may come to bed."

He feared, as the light was turned low and he slipped into bed, Cora turning away from his attempt to kiss her goodnight, that he would never understand the intricacies and painfully narrow rules of being in love.


	2. Chapter 2

"…_All you have to do is close your eyes  
And just reach out your hands and touch me  
Hold me close don't ever let me go…"_

His mother was standing by the door when he came bounding up the stairs. She looked stoic, more so than he remembered seeing her in years, and looked alarmed by his presence on the upstairs gallery.

"We didn't summon you, Robert—"

He tried to push beyond the maids blocking the hall, and barely seemed to register her words, his heart racing almost as fast as his thoughts. "I know, I know, but I heard Cora shouting, and then she stopped, so I thought maybe that I…" he paused, then, not knowing exactly why he'd come up, but also because he could hear his wife, just beyond the door, groaning in pain.

"Robert, my dear."

His eyes grew fuller and his belly filled with a sick, churning concern at the sound of his mother's endearment. She rarely used such comforts, and he was entirely suspicious. "I think I need to go in and check," he answered, attempting to pull away from her hand, which grasped uncomfortably at his arm.

"Robert, _no." _

"Mama?" He wanted, more than anything, for her to reassure him—to chuckle and tell him to go downstairs for another drink, to wait for the lusty wail of a baby,_ their baby,_ before returning. But he knew enough of his mother, knew well enough the concern frozen in her brow, to stay rooted in place.

Before she could answer, his wife's screams broke the brief silence of the hall, and seemed to jolt everyone back to life. Maids began rushing down the hall toward the stairs, his mother attempted to pull him away from the door—to no avail—and then a nurse opened the bedroom door, allowing him the briefest of looks at the scene within before his eyes focused on the woman's blood covered hands and apron.

"Dear God," he heard his mother murmur, hissing at the woman to go clean herself up.

Her grasp on him loosed just for a second, and before she could recover, he was through the vestibule and in the middle of the overheated room. The doctor, reaching for tools from an assistant, seemed not to notice his presence. The maids looked up briefly, bewilderedly, and he heard his mother shouting from behind him to leave at once.

But Cora, writhing in pain on their bed, in nearly the same place where they'd woken just that morning, his hand splayed across her belly and her face full of sleepy contentment, looked at him with a wild fear in her eyes, and reached out a hand toward him.

His steps, mechanical and yet somehow still stumbling, brought him to her side before he could process the cacophony of noise around them both. He gave her two hands to grip with her one, and sharp nails bit into his palm, his stomach lurching forward at the sight of more blood and a pair of scissors as the doctor muttered something about being done soon.

Within the minute, though the concept of time seemed a far away thing to him as people talked loudly and the room buzzed, another scream and a great push drew forth their daughter into the world.

He watched the doctor lift her into the air, a shock of dark hair starkly contrasting the white towel she was soon swaddled in, and felt the air in the room suddenly quite light. Giddy, yes, giddy was the word, he thought. The nurses began to work around him, cleaning Cora up, and he sat ever so gently on the edge of the bed, still holding tightly to Cora's hand, and watched in awed silence as their new world unfolded right around them.


	3. Chapter 3

"…_What would you do if my heart was torn in two  
More than words to show you feel  
That your love for me is real  
What would you say if I took those words away  
Then you couldn't make things new  
Just by saying I love you…"_

She sat at his desk, papers strewn about and the fire crackling lowly in the background. Everyone else seemed determined to avoid him at any cost; pity was not, after all, the most comfortable emotion for one to relay.

But there she was.

Lovely as ever, Cora's back pressed straight against his chair and she looked deep in thought, not noticing his presence until he was but a few feet away and in the middle of clearing his throat. She looked up and he saw it pulled across her delicate features. Yes, pity was difficult to relay, but it was all over her face.

Cora smiled, a sad half-smile, and moved to stand. "Darling."

"I—thought we could have tea," he explained simply, bringing his hands together and looking around the room, anywhere but into her eyes.

She nodded immediately. He knew she would grant him anything, would do anything in her power to take the pain away. There was nothing he needed, really, beyond the space to exhale and deal with the grief in private. But still—he knew she would walk to the edge of the Earth to spare him any hurt, and he loved her so terribly much for that.

"Can I get you anything else?" She had not moved, and continued to study his face, as if searching for cracks in the thinning veneer that she might need to mend. One hand extended, and clasped over his, the contact threatening to topple his stoic countenance.

He shook his head and took a step backward, not trusting himself. "No, no. Just the tea."

Again she nodded, this time pursing her lips as she looked down at his hands, his fingers drumming anxiously against his leg, and then—seemingly decided to let him be—she set about clearing up the mess of papers.

"What were you doing?" Robert ventured, moving to the corner of the room to pull the cord. She said nothing until he returned to the desk. And yes, again, it was a distinct sadness in her eyes.

"I was working on the flowers for the ceremony," she answered softly.

He wished desperately for her to reach out again, though he couldn't quite manage to move his arms the way he wanted and knew she would do nothing she thought might make him upset. Grief, as he knew, was a thick bog that took days, weeks, and months, to lessen its effect. It had been but three days. They were all still in the thick of it.

She lifted a page from the top of the stack and held it out, displaying a pencil drawing of a flower arrangement that had been sent over. Robert took it, haltingly, and blinked down at it several times, the image forcing its way into his periphery.

"It looks…" he searched for the words, none seeming quite appropriate, and settled on, "…fine."

Cora nodded and grasped at the page, but found his grip tight. "Darling?" She looked up at him, her eyes still laden with emotion he had no strength left to carry, and pressed a hand to his arm.

He closed his eyes, squeezing them shut and willing them to behave. "She—I—I'm sure that—that Mama would have thought it fine."

He knew as the words began to tumble out that there was no use; he was, ultimately, ineffective in masking anything from his wife, especially this of all things. She'd been by his side when they received the news, had held him that night as he wept, freely and like a child, and had supported him these last thirty six years without hesitation. And now she stood before him once again, wrapping her arms round him as gingerly as she could manage, as he crumpled the paper in his fist and, in the privacy of the room, began to sob against her shoulder.

"Shhhhh," she hummed, soothing him as best she could.

And it helped, really it did. The fragrance of her perfume anchored him in place, and the feel of her palms making soothing passes over his back reminded him that there was, and would be, comfort, should he desire it.

"Cora, I—" his voice faltered over the words, the lump in his throat a painfully constant reminder of the loss he felt so acutely. "—you know that I—"

"I know," came her reply, her lips pressed to his neck. "I know."


End file.
